Orb Sceptre Throne

More warriors closed, meaning to bring down these three murderers, only to fall to the near-invisible blades or the gore-smeared hands of the mage. Tserig threw down his staff to raise his arms high. ‘Sons and daughters of the plains!’ he bellowed. ‘Flee! Now! Ignore this filth! Flee these lands now. An ancient curse has arisen! North! Flee north!’

Aman closed upon him. ‘Shut up, old man!’ He brought a fist smashing down, breaking Tserig’s skull and snapping the frail vertebrae of his neck. He fell instantly dead.

*

From the palisade wall of Fort Step, which for some reason unknown to Fist Steppen it had come to be named, she and Fist K’ess watched while the meeting of allies that promised to sweep them from the plain all went horribly wrong.

‘Looks like a falling out,’ Steppen said, her propensity for understatement intact.

‘Don’t it though,’ K’ess echoed. Then he gestured aside. ‘Look at that. An encirclement.’

Steppen squinted into the lengthening shadows. There, among the tall grass, individual figures had arisen in a broad ring surrounding the Rhivi camp. One every few tens of paces. While they watched, the figures closed in, tightening the circle.

‘Gods-damned slaughter,’ K’ess murmured. ‘Their first mistake.’

‘They think they don’t need them.’

The Fists met each other’s gaze. K’ess cocked a brow. Steppen gave one quick nod that bulged her double chin. K’ess leaned over the catwalk. ‘Captain Fal-ej!’

‘Aye?’

‘An immediate withdrawal west! Over the wall! Lightest pack. Three days’ water.’

‘Aye, sir!’

Both Fists returned to gauging the fighting. Rhivi riders, alone and in packs, thundered off through the encirclement, riding north for the lake. Many fell, but the majority bulled through. Presumably those survivors wouldn’t stop for anything.

‘Four squads should remain on the walls till everyone’s gone,’ K’ess said. ‘I’ll stay with them.’

‘I believe you held the rear-guard last,’ Steppen pointed out. ‘It’s my turn.’

K’ess looked the rather dumpy woman up and down. ‘You sure you’re up to it?’

Steppen merely looked to the sky. ‘These recruits don’t know what a hard march is. Not like the run to Evinor. Time they learned.’

K’ess cast an eye over the fort. ‘A shame, really. Well built.’

‘Have to have a word with the engineers. I was really looking for something roomier.’

The distant scream of a dying horse pierced the din of battle, making Steppen wince. She faced the east. ‘Run, you poor bastards,’ she murmured. ‘Flee. Just mount up and ride.’

K’ess squeezed her shoulder. ‘Oponn’s favour.’ He turned and left her.

‘Toren,’ she called, using his first name, and he paused on his way down.

‘Yes?’

‘Give them something to remember,’ she said, smiling. ‘Show them what they’ve taken on, yes?

Fist K’ess inclined his head in agreement. ‘Somewhere narrow, Argell. I will see you there.’ He offered a brief salute and bounded down the stairs. Steppen turned to the east again and the screams drifting across with the wind. Gods. So it’s true. All that she’d heard. These Seguleh. A few hundreds against some thirty thousand and it’s a rout.

Facing the gathering twilight she whispered: ‘Yes, Toren. We’ll meet again there.’

Crouched in the tall grass, Captain Fal-ej scanned a landscape painted an unnatural watery green. Like the bottom of the sea, she thought to herself. Almost beautiful. To either side sergeants awaited her command to fire. Damn the man. Where was he? This bravado could cost them an experienced commander. Not to mention she hadn’t yet told him all that she wanted to.

Then movement among the grass and the Fist came running up the slope. Fal-ej signed for a stand-down. She rose to meet him. ‘We’re on the move,’ she called rather angrily. ‘Where’s Fist Steppen?’

‘Holding the fort.’

She stared past K’ess to the distant structure. ‘That’s-’

‘Yes,’ K’ess cut in. ‘She’s buying us time. Now let’s go. Double-time.’

Fal-ej backed away, signing a withdrawal to the sergeants. K’ess kept going. ‘No rear guard or outliers, Captain,’ he called. ‘Just a rear watch.’

‘Aye,’ she answered. She raised her arm in the air to inscribe the circular pull out sign.

*

When dawn came Fist Steppen found herself looking out at an encirclement of Seguleh. Crows and other scavenging birds wheeled in the brightening eastern sky, or hopped obscenely among the distant trampled grass. The Seguleh facing her showed no wounds, though blood splashed some. One stepped forward insolently close given the fifteen crossbows covering him. His mask was a dizzying swirled design.

‘You are surrounded,’ he called. ‘You do not possess sufficient forces to defend your walls. Throw down your weapons and you will be allowed to live.’

‘Let us discuss terms,’ Steppen answered, a hand tight on the adzed log before her. ‘What assurances can you provide of our fair treatment? I request a third-party negotiator.’

The Seguleh gave an odd cutting motion with his hand. ‘We will not allow you to delay. You are not important.’

‘Not important? You mean you would just pass us by?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. Well. In that case.’ She pointed. ‘Kill that man.’

Fifteen crossbows fired. The Seguleh twisted and ducked. Only two bolts struck him: one high in the leg, the other slashing the flesh of his left arm. The Seguleh charged the walls. Using their hands and feet they climbed the log palisade. Troopers backed away, dropping their crossbows as there was no time to reload. Steppen drew her slim blade. At least we wounded one of them, she told herself as the first appeared atop the walls. She swung but he dropped below the blade. Another jumped cat-like over the top to land with her sword already drawn. Steppen swung and the woman seemed to parry and counter all in the same fluid motion. Her blade slid easily through Steppen’s leather armour to slash across her front, eviscerating her. The Fist tried one last attack but was off balance from the severing of so many muscle groups and she could not regain her footing. She fell off the catwalk to land in a wet tangled heap. As she lay in the dirt staring at the bark of the palisade logs her last thought was: Not that much of a damned delay …

Torvald Nom did not spend too long in his cell. Just two meal periods later the door ratcheted and opened to reveal a Silver flanked by two Black. Torvald’s first thought was that this was the same Silver. Then he realized that he really couldn’t tell at all. He wished he’d spent more time memorizing the engraving on his driver’s armour. But he’d been rather busy trying not to throw up at the time. He slowly climbed to his feet and gave a shallow bow. ‘Welcome. If I’d known you were coming I would have saved some of my food.’

‘Torvald Nom of Nom,’ the Silver said, and he recognized her voice, ‘word has come from our Blue cousins affirming your story. Your credentials from the Darujhistan Council have also been deemed adequate. Our apologies.’

Torvald gave another brief bow. He suspected that this was all the contrition he was going to see. ‘I am glad.’ Gods! ‘I am glad.’ How banal! Shouldn’t I say something profound like: ‘Let this meeting usher in a new age of accord between our two peoples.’ Something puffed up and self-important like that?

The Silver motioned him out. ‘This way, please.’

As they walked the stone passages Torvald glanced sideways at his guide. He drew a long breath and straightened his shirts and cloak. ‘So … what is your name? If I may enquire.’

‘Galene.’

‘Galene? Galene. Well, where are we going? What’s happening?’